


Sun in Shadow

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, mentions of Eothas and the Saint's War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Eothas wished to understand, and thus he became a mortal. And, trapped in a mortal body, he died. Which does not have to mean he is deceased. The sun, just as any part of nature, ultimately defies understanding.(An occasional pre-Deadfire ficlet. Berath, Woedica, mentions of Eothas and the end of the Saint’s War.)





	Sun in Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> (Prompt 39: roll for it, the gods edition. The original roll was: Berath, the Saint's War, wichts. Threw in Woedica for good measure.)

“Is he dead?” The Exiled Queen is haughty and regal as ever, sitting motionlessly on a low, cracked stone altar as if it was a throne, with her hands steepled under her chin into the shape of a crown. But her fingers are restless; small, erratic movements, hardly noticeable, almost invisible to any living being, even a god.

But death reaches further, and thus can Berath see.

“He is not among the living.” The words are quiet, even, unassuming like time and relentless like passing ages.

Woedica’s eyes narrow, the gleam of adra becoming the flash of a dagger, of a sacrificial knife. “That’s not an answer.”

“Part of it. Which can yield considerable knowledge, paired with a proper question.”

“Wael’s conundrums,” the Queen huffs.

Berath often still thinks of her as simply ‘the Queen’; that is what she was, what she is, what she will always be. Justice and power; neither needs a throne to reign. Life in death, death in life; past reflected in the present, offering glimpses of the future for those who know where to look; they are all one and the same. But only a few can understand that; just as only a few comprehend it is not possible to describe life without death. A Wheel, but more than; a Wheel turning, rolling, always in motion; its middle never at rest, but never changing position either. Contradictions, antitheses.

Eothas wished to understand, and thus he became a mortal. And, trapped in a mortal body, he died. Which does not have to mean he is deceased. The sun, just as any part of nature, ultimately defies understanding; and light cannot exist without darkness.

“When a mortal dies, the soul returns to the Wheel. What happens when a god dies? Even our physical forms, when we wear them, are manifestations of the soul, of the very essence of our beings. What happens when you kill a god housed in the flesh of a mortal?” Berath shrugs. “It has never been done before.”

Woedica briefly closes her eyes, thinking. “What happens when a soul is ripped out of a body?” she asks sharply.

Berath waits until their stares meet again. “You know that, High Justice. You know that very well.”

Many tales of the _bîaŵacs_ are old, almost ancient, and most of those have been offerings to Woedica. But those winds were designed to reap the souls overstaying their time on Eora, not the ones not even sown in new bodies. But the Queen That Was always will be the Queen – and when she wants, she takes, without asking.

Before the war, before the deal with Magran, before burning Eothas out of Waidwen – she asked. Her faithful rarely think of it, but her most loyal servant – theirs, too, but always hers _more_ – he knows that she is the most terrifying when she asks.

With a flourish of her gown, Woedica gets up; her skirts are clean, but there are traces of soot and ash on the stone altar. She is silent, pressing her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but a single glance is enough to express her impatience.

“Yes, I know,” she says at last. “Witless vessels, that is what happens. That’s not what I was asking about.” She comes closer, more gliding than walking. “The soul. What happens with the soul?”

“Don’t you know that?” Berath replies with a question. A rhetorical one, too; Woedica, just as any queen, does not like to share her jewels.

“Mortal souls, yes. He was more than a mortal.”

“Does shattering the vessel damage the liquid?”

“No.” Woedica’s brow furrows. “You cannot hurt water; merely spill it.”

“Here is your question, then, High Justice. What happens when you shatter a lantern and spill the light?”


End file.
